


du Lac

by Enchantable



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rebirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25624453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enchantable/pseuds/Enchantable
Summary: “Burn with me,” she offers.“No.”“You will. One day.”
Relationships: Arthur/Nimue (Cursed), Morgana | Igraine/Nimue (Cursed), Nimue/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 211





	du Lac

Things come in threes.

The mother, the father, the sword.

The friend, the foe, the father.

The water, the arrows, the blood.

She counts three heartbeats before her eyes close in the red. She counts to three before she opens them to the stones on the beach. Three coughs for the water in her lungs, three breaths for air to be sweet again. There’s three people inside her. The girl, the summoner—and whatever she is now. She doesn’t know but she knows she isn’t the same.

It takes three days to escape and three weeks to find them. She expects no celebrations, her joy at her people has always been her own. The unease has turned to horror. Hands move towards weapons, eyes look anywhere but don’t meet her own. It’s only Pym who pushes past her fear, who hesitates only a moment before throwing her arms around her.

“Thank the Gods your back,” she whispers.

Nimue doesn’t know what Gods would do this, but they aren’t the kind you thank with things like words or belief.

“You’re dripping,” Squirrel says when he sees her, direct as always.

“I drowned,” Nimue says. Her voice hurts from disuse.

“Are you a monster now?” He asks. She shrugs, she doesn’t know. She thinks she might be.

“Squirrel,” Pym scolds.

“It’s alright,” Nimue rasps, “is it wrong if I am?”

“No,” he says, “you’re not wrong.”

It takes her three seconds to realize she’s forgotten how to smile.

Arthur holds her for three wonderful heartbeats. He smells of earth and Folk and Nimue is so glad to be in his arms. Any remnants of her heart are with her people and he has kept them safe, as he promised he would. His front is dark when she pulls back. She wonders in how many ways has she stained him? He doesn’t let her go. He strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. He calls her his. The fear in his eyes he pushes past, the fear makes her love him more.

“Thank you,” she says, “beloved.”

“My Lady.”

Three steps.

She sees him out of the corner of her eye.

Three steps, three breaths, three seconds. He’s fast but the dark is easy for her now. She’s not expecting him to throw it back at her. Her surprise is not enough to catch her off guard. Her magic is stronger, she throws him about and pins him down. She replaces each vine he cuts twice over. If she is a monster let her be the Hydra. Let her overwhelm him until there is nothing but his foul memory. Their eyes lock as she relieves him of his weapons and pins his arms. People are yelling but she holds them back and advances on him. She wants to see the fear he’s inflicted. She wants to see him hurt.

“You were right to hunt me,” she whispers, crawling vines across his skin and up his throat,, “you should have been better at it,” she looks at the patches of green that follow her vines, “you aren’t the first Fey to be scared of me.”

“No,” he rasps.

“No?” She mocks, “I can feel your pulse racing,” she leans closer, “I smell it,” she inhales, “it smells like—“

Everything goes green.

Then black.

It takes her three breaths to open her eyes. For the first time since she drowned, she feels warm. It almost hurts. When she opens her eyes her father is looking at her. Only he doesn’t look like her father, like the powerless man who let her go. He looks ancient. She knows that look, it’s the one she’s always seen in her mother’s eyes. She realizes she hasn’t seen her mother. She died and her mother wasn’t there. She must truly be damned.

“Father—“ he cringes from the name.

“Child,” he puts his hand on her brow, “I am so sorry.”

She has no absolution for him.

Perhaps this is how her mother felt, whenever she thought of him.

Perhaps this is how everyone in her family is destined to feel about each other.

She finds Squirrel crouched over the fire. She finds her monster next to him. Squirrel looks but doesn’t get up, the monster does. What kind of evil does it take to be a monster’s monster? The kind that is disarmingly sitting by the fire breaking bread with her old friend. She’s wet and cold again. She feels like a monster as she approaches. Too close and the flames begin to sputter. She takes a step back.

“It’s alright,” Squirrel says and elbows his monster. He pretends not to notice, “do it.”

“No.”

“You said you would,” Squirrel says, “you said I could ask three times, remember?”

This monster who knows nothing of honor takes a deep breath of frustration, pushes up his sleeve and slips his hand into the flames. She watches as they change. Everything turns green and warm. Her feet propel her forward and she stands by the fire, savoring the warmth. Wet and cold is how she is, but just for a moment she can pretend that she is a living girl again.

“Fey Fire was supposed to be gone,” she says. She looks at him, “you didn’t give this to your Brothers.”

“It’s not to be shared,” he says.

“So a slow death is better?” She demands. He glares up at her, “or do you just enjoy causing suffering?”

“He only enjoys causing himself suffering,” Squirrel mutters.

Nimue snatches back her vines.

She cannot snuff out the only innocence left in the world. She looks at the monster. On any other face the look would be embarrassment, but he hasn’t earned that from her. She has no sympathy for him.

“Does he have a name?” They look at each other. She sees the monsters lips part, “I wasn’t talking to you.”

Squirrel hesitates and the fury steals her breath. He’s protecting a monster. She should have expected the Paladins to pull something like this. Children, good people, none of it has ever stopped them. The monster is upside down, dangling above his green flames. Is he fireproof? Does she care? Squirrel is shouting for the others but Nimue doesn’t care. Let them come. Let them see. They will keep Squirrel safe.

“Lancelot,” the monster breaks through her rage with a word, “my name is Lancelot.”

She releases him mid air and is only mildly disappointed when he manages to land on his feet. He pulls the green from the fire and it winks out. The last thing it shows is him pushing Squirrel behind himself. His eyes don’t leave her. She hears the others come running. She cannot bear to have them see her like this.

The calls of her name chase her into the dark.

She wishes she didn’t miss the warmth.

“What am I?” She asks her father.

“Something beyond this world,” he says, “and my daughter.”

“I wish my mother were here,” she says, “she would fear me, wouldn’t she?”

“She didn’t fear me,” Merlin points out, “I can’t imagine her ever being afraid of you, even now.”

It only makes her feel slightly better to hear that. It’s Arthur and Pym and Squirrel who are afraid but like her anyways who really matter. But it’s Morgana who appears in a black dress in an instant, who throws off her veil and runs to her without any hesitation. She’s ephemeral, like a shadow and Nimue feels very much a drowned fish in front of her, but they collide like two lost stars. Nimue knows she’s weeping and thinks you can hardly tell with how she is now. There are no tears on Morgana though her shoulders shake with sobs. Perhaps this is who they both are now.

“I thought you were dead!” Morgana cries.

“I’m as dead as you,” Nimue says and she throws her head back and laughs, “oh I’ve missed you.”

“Not as much as I’ve missed you.”

There’s the old, the new and the yet to be. In Morgana’s embrace all three sing sweetly together. Nimue wishes that was true for everyone else. She longs for hugging them to feel as it did. But only Morgana is the same, even if she is now shadow and air. They have become monsters together and if Nimue had to choose someone to walk the path with, it would be Morgana. She looks Lancelot up and down.

“Betrayed anyone lately, pet?” She sniffs.

“Only my brothers,” he replies simply.

“Which ones?”

She rolls her eyes and loops her arm with Nimue’s. It’s almost easy to forget they know each other. That they are connected in a very odd way. She doesn’t seem surprised to learn that he’s a Fey and Nimue realizes it is rather ridiculous to assume the Church didn’t know. They didn’t speak of it, to be sure, but everyone seems to have known. It earns him favor with no-one, she thinks Squirrel was probably right and he enjoys causing his own suffering. The people she knows from the church, who believe it’s doctrine, all seem to enjoy their own masochism. Not as much as inflicting it on others, but they enjoy it all the same.

“I’m glad you kept your wits about you,” she says to Morgana.

She shudders to think of how the convent, how any of this, would have been without her.

It’s three weeks before she finds herself alone with him.

She sleeps but not really, she dreams in memories and powers. Sometimes when she sleeps she walks. There are no village walls to stop her in the place they are in, just endless endless fields. She opens her eyes to find she’s lost. The dripping never leaves a trail, everything looks the same. She is about to call out when he parts the grass with a covered hand. More and more of his layers have found their way to other people, bodies more in need of warmth than pride. He takes care not to touch the grass.

“Are you going to try and kill me?” She asks.

“I would have taken my chance when you were asleep,” he says.

It’s a wonder that their voices sound alike. She’s forgotten how to have a conversation, he doesn’t seem to ever have learned. He’d be pitiful if not for their history. She supposes she would be the same. Somehow they have become two monsters standing there. One of water, one of fire. Her skin crawls at the realization and the part of her that is still a girl wants to turn and flee. From him, from this, from everything.

“I’m not your Queen,” she says. He raises an eyebrow, “you’re not one of my people.”

“I didn’t ask to be.”

“Good,” she says, raising her chin, “so we’re clear.”

He looks at her silently. Patiently. She wants to tell him to leave her, but she’s not sure how to get back. She knows he knows the way. She remembers him, eyes half closed and nose turned up to the wind. Sniffing her out. Like a dog. Her stomach or what’s left of it recoils. Is a dog loyal to only one master? She cannot remember. She cannot think about it. She’s already dead so she isn’t sure it even matters.

“Take me back,” she says.

He inclines his head and steps forward, leading the way.

The safety of her people is the only thing that matters now. She needs to get them somewhere. Somewhere away from the Paladins and away from the mortals. She cannot do it alone. Morgana goes, quick and shadow, she dissipate and reappears like a dark, comforting thought. The first thing she always does is remove the veil. As if seeing Nimue and her brother lets her shed one piece of madness. When she does it this time, the usual determination is gone and replaced by a joy that Nimue hasn’t seen on her face in a very long time.

“I’ve found it,” she says

“Where?”

“It’s far, but I can lead us there. We’ll be safe,” her smile slips, “we will have to pass by Paladin territory.”

“You’ll lead us,” she says to her friend. She looks at him, “you’ll guide us there safely.”

Morgana squeezes her hand.

“I need a map,” Lancelot says.

He finds a way through for them, all of them. Though it takes him a few moments to figure it out. She gets the sense that taking care with groups of people is not his forte. But he tells them where they need to go and how to be prepared for what the Paladins might do. She would thank him but she decides to do that if they get to where they need to go.

“Be careful about trusting the Ash Folk,” her father says.

“Because he has something you need?” She asks.

“Because they have nothing to lose,” he says, “that’s a dangerous thing.”

“I don’t either,” she begins, but then stops. Her people, her people need her. Even if a voice tells her that Arthur will see them safe to where they are going, that they are in good hands, she knows she can do a better job. “If it comes down to it, I don’t either.”

Merlin scowls and she tries not to equate it with the look her mother sometimes gave her when she was particularly stubborn. When she acted like her father. She’s become a monster like him and far worse. She has nothing to lose because she will only be able to lead them so long. So far. Then her time will be done and she doesn’t know what comes next, but it scares her. Perhaps there is a hell. She’s fairly certain she’s been to it, the idea of returning to it terrifies her. She finds him easily enough, scouting out a route. Second guessing himself.

“Are we this for a reason?” She asks, “is there a purpose?” He looks at her quietly, “I’m asking you a question. What does your God say about it?”

“Nothing,” he says.

“Nothing?”

“God doesn’t speak of Fey,” he says.

“What does that make you?” She asks.

“Damned,” he says simply.

She is as well but she loathes having anything in common with him. She’s afraid that if she starts to count the things, she will find too many. She doesn’t want anything in common with him, but at least she’s like this. At least she can tell herself that the girl she was wouldn’t. What she is now, well, she doesn’t know if there’s a point in drawing lines between monsters anymore.

“Hell hurts,” she tells him flatly.

She enjoys the flash of fear in his eyes too much.

It doesn’t stop him though.

He’s there, damn him. Her power doesn’t stop him. He lurks like a shadow. Like he’s stalking her and maybe he is. Maybe this is always how things were fated to go. Her longing for the girl who ran off on her mother’s hatred sours to bitterness as she thinks this might be how it was always meant to be. Her mother was to meet her father, she was to be born. She was to have hopes and dreams, to think she could escape her fate. But fate wins. Fate always wins. And the world is unbearably cruel, even to someone like her who only has one foot in it.

“Do they let you fuck?” She asks one night after nearly killing Merlin. Her father waves her off but she lingers outside his tent, “or is it just murder that’s allowed?”

“Does it matter?” He asks. His words have started to come more freely, but not freely enough for her liking.

“It does to me,” she says. He raises an eyebrow, “I miss being warm.”

He stares at her and she wonders if either of them is sure that she’s joking. She can’t fully say. Being warm sounds wonderful and she’s not sure if she’s meant for wonderful things anymore. But if she boils it down, his fire is the thing that makes her feel warm. The only thing.

“So are you a virgin?” She asks.

“That’s not important.”

“Of course it is, I want to be warm for longer than a virgin can last.”

He huffs and that’s the only indication he’s uncomfortable. She relishes his discomfort. She wants him to be uncomfortable so he’ll stop being so stubborn and so incendiary and such a shadow. She wants him to feel pain, even just a fraction of the pain he’s caused her.

“Don’t you have Arthur for that?”

She hisses through her teeth. Arthur is good. Arthur will be great. Arthur is not warm. He’s not what she needs right now. And she is not what he needs either. They are bad for each other. She doesn’t care what Lancelot thinks of her. He’s as damned as she is, she just has a better reason to face hell.

“You took everything from me,” she says to him, suddenly in front of him. So close she can almost feel it. He looks down at her but he doesn’t look away, “the least you can do is give me the memory of being warm.”

His throat bobs but he doesn’t look away.

That doesn’t make him brave.

“Nimue—“

She kisses him so he shuts up.

She kisses him because it makes him uncomfortable, because she wants to hurt him. Mostly she kisses him because the idea of her name on his lips is utterly unbearable. He’s never kissed anyone before, that much is very clear. But he’s fought people. He translates it into the language that he knows. She digs her teeth into his bottom lip to help him along and suddenly finds herself pressed to the wall, the warmth from his skin seeping through her wet gown. Things come in threes.

It’s warm.

It’s painful.

It’s copper.

They pull apart and their mouths are wet with her water, their saliva and his blood. It’s an ugly thing, kissing him. It’s a betrayal and greed. Perhaps his church was right and she is sin. Well she knows that she’s sin now, but perhaps she was always sin and this was just the inevitable conclusion of it. She looks down to see that his shirt is wet and sheer. She slides her fingers to the mark on his shoulder and she watches him watch her. Something dark is in his eyes.

“Burn with me,” she offers.

“No.”

“You will. One day.”

He takes the warmth with him when he pulls away.

She mourns for it again.

He doesn’t leave.

She damns him all the same.

The island is beautiful when she sees it across the impossible body of water. Something in her unravels at the sight of it. It will be safe. She will make it safe. Morgana looks at her tearfully and grasps her hand without any fear.

“You did this,” she says to her friend.

“We did this,” Morgana says, “we’re so close.”

“Tomorrow,” Nimue tells her, “it will be done tomorrow.”

Lancelot finds her along the shore, feeling the rocks under her feet. She hears him coming but she keeps her eyes focused on the still waters and and the island. Storm clouds are coming in and soon it starts to rain. She doesn’t mind it. When she turns Lancelot is still there looking out at the water.

“You cannot go where they are going,” she says, “you’re not ready.”

“And you?”

She smiles painfully.

“I guess the flames haven’t melted your brain.”

He searches her questioningly but she kisses him instead. She doesn’t want questions or his pity. Maybe it’s fitting that he’s here when she gives up the last of everything. When she goes to pull away, his arms tighten around her waist. His request doesn’t have to be spoken to be heard. But he doesn’t have the right to request anything of her.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “for what I did.”

“I know you are,” she tells him, “that’s not enough.”

“I know.”

He flattens his hand on her sternum and she breathes in the warmth that coils down in her bones. She’s not mortal anymore, not flesh or blood, there’s nothing there for the fire to fuel itself. So it simply burns where her heart used to be. When she steps back, his arms drop and she picks up the sword.

“Kneel,” she says., “A knight of the Fey is one with the land, as enduring as the Great River, and as true as Arwan’s Bow,” she says, “we are born into the dawn."

"To pass into the twilight,” he murmurs.

She smiles triumphant and raises her chin.

“You are my knight now, Lancelot of the Lake. You serve me. And I command you to follow Arthur, until you return.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Things come in threes.

The waters close over her and fill her lungs again, but the fire still burns in her chest. She is water and fire and girl. She is living and dead and the sword in her hands. She settles ad floats and the lake becomes hers. Hers to control, hers to guard, hers to be. None will touch her people now as she wraps around them, carried by the current in the water. She watches them cross and she watches those who stay. Lancelot and Percival and Arthur. In time there will be others. One day she will even share the sword. One day she will let them all pass to Avalon. It’s both one day and happening and long in the past.

She doesn’t exist in time in the same sense but as Morgana whisks around in the sky, she is glad for the company.


End file.
